She just loves him so much, just wanted to show him, to give him something to remind him of her during his long absences from her life. That’s it. That’s all.
She wasn’t, as he accused her of, trying to brand him or claim him or control him. She wasn’t trying to mark him or make him her property. None of that. Nothing like that. She’s happy being his property. He doesn’t have to be hers.
She had just made him a bracelet—one that looks a lot like the one she made herself, the one she loves so much. That’s it. A gift to say I love you. A memento to say remember me, remember that I love you, that I would die for you.
What if my wife sees this? he said. What then?
She doesn’t remind him that before that moment he had only called her his ex-wife, he had said it was only a matter of time until he moved out and took her with him.
She had cried so hard.
And it wasn’t just that he had rejected her gift and accused her of trying to do something she wasn’t. It was that she had spent every spare cent she had on it. She had skipped meals. A lot of them. Thankfully, Barbara and Nora had insisted she eat with them. Had they seen her picking scraps out of the trash? She didn’t think anyone had. Maybe she just looked weak and skinny. She had skipped meals and gone without and was now short on the rent and he had hated it.
It woud’ve been bad enough if she had left it at that, if she had just accepted his rejection the way she had so many before him, but she couldn’t. She’s come undone. That’s what he does to her.
To add insult to serious injury, to make sure her fuck up was not just run of the mill, but epic, she had actually called his house. She had found his home number—who has those anymore?—made up a story, and called him.
His wife answered the phone.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Why? Why did you cross this line? Why do you self-sabotage like you’re trying to qualify for the Olympics in it?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Too late now. Have to go through with it.
She pretends to be a co-worker.
Mercifully, he’s not home.
Would you like to leave a message? the wife asks. He should be in shortly.
I’ll just talk to him tomorrow at work. Should’ve waited ‘’til then anyway. Sorry to disturb.
No problem.
She hangs up, absolutely certain he will know it was her. What she is less certain about is what he will do about it?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
* * *
Then
* * *
He jerks and wakes up. Throws back the covers, looks for snakes by the light of his cell phone.
It was just a dream.
You need to go now. Keep moving.
Just a little more sleep.
He pulls the blanket back up over himself and closes his eyes. Sleep.
Dreams.
He wakes feeling stiff and sore, and when he sits up, his body screams in pain. Must be hurt more than I thought.
Check your cell phone.
I already have.
Do it again.
He does.
No signal.
Check your camera.
He does.
Seems fine. Still works.
What about the radio?
No way to know how much battery life is left. If it’s a new battery, it could be days, if it’s an old one, it could die at any minute. He looks at it. Seems old, strength weakening, but it’s still working for the moment.
Check the Cuddeback. See what’s on it.
The Cuddeback is a tree-mounted scouting camera hunters use to record any activity near their tree stands or feed sites when they’re not around. Used mostly to capture the number, size, and habits of deer, the unit captures anything that moves—other animals, trespassers. Equipped with both a still and a video camera, the Cuddeback takes color photos and video by day and infrared by night so as not to use a flash.
Unlike Remington’s camera traps, the utilitarian Cuddeback isn’t after art, just a record hunters can use in pursuit of their prey.
He removes the memory card, finds the viewer, pops it in, and starts watching.
Eerie, ghostly, infrared images of green-tinted deer with bright, glowing eyes fill the screen, each with a date and time stamp on the bottom left of the image and the Cuddeback logo on the right.
Color shots, mostly at dawn and dusk. Overexposed. Unbalanced color. Light. Faint. Serviceable. Usable. Deer. Fox. Coon. Squirrel. Bear. Boar.
Video clips much the same. Color. Infrared. Short. Jumpy. Jittery. Deer. Squirrel. Boar. Remington.
The clip shows his greenish, ghostly approach, glowing eyes glancing up, studying something above the frame.
Leave a message.
Erasing the clips currently on the unit, he prepares to leave a message for the hunter who will eventually come back and find it.
Think.
There’s memory enough to record three clips, sixty seconds each. How to use them.
First, quickly tell about the murder and all you know about Gauge, Jackson, and the others. Second, leave a message for Mom. Third, one for Heather.
Take a few more moments to prepare. Got to be concise. He lights himself with the flashlight and huddles in the corner. Holding the camera out as far as he can, he begins what may very well be his last will and testament.
Last words. Make them count.
When he’s finished and preparing to depart, he wonders if he should leave the memory card with the murder on it.
No. The messages will be here. Don’t leave them both. What if Gauge finds this place? He could, you know. Then he’d have them both. The Cuddeback stays here. Hide the camera trap memory card somewhere else.
43
Now
* * *
Under cover of darkness, the Hornet lies on the ground near a huge oak tree scoping the Jordans’ house when John pulls into the driveway.
The oak is located between two houses across the street from John’s, with an empty lot behind it and Main Street beyond. Several of its limbs actually hang down to touch the ground on this side. He couldn’t have come up with a better blind if he had designed it himself.
The scope he’s peering through is a Nightforce NXS 8-32x56 and is mounted to his Remington 300 win mag Model 700 Long Range rifle.
He hadn’t planned on doing anything tonight but a bit of reconnaissance. The only reason he has the rifle with him at all is he wanted to use the scope.
But maybe now is as good a time as any.
No one is home. He’s watched the house long enough to know that.
A simple, single shot. Half the job over before it really begins. Would only leave the girl. And she’ll be the easier target by far—or so he thought. Hard to get much easier than this.
Small towns are the best. Very little traffic on Main Street. The house to his left is empty, the one to his right has two older people recently retired to bed.
Three options. When he gets out of the car, as he’s walking to the door, or through the kitchen or dining room windows.
In the first option he’s moving and it means he’ll drop him on the fuckin’ lawn. Will draw too much attention too quickly. Inside is better. Either option will work, but sitting at the dining table is the best option. If he even does that. How many guys sit alone at the kitchen table to eat when their family is gone? It’d be one thing if he were single and used to eating alone, but with them just away . . .
What the . . .
Before the first target even gets out of his car, the second target pulls into the driveway and parks behind him.
My lucky fuckin’ night.
She here for dinner? Will they both sit at the dining table together?
Pop. Pop. Just like that. Take the second one out before she realizes the first was even hit.
Old bastards just thought they were overpaying me. Thought his ass was going to have to hunt them through the fuckin’ jungle. But this . . .
this is too easy. This means they’re way, way overpaying me.
44
Now
* * *
I end the call with Reggie and get out of my car as Heather pulls into the driveway behind me.
She’s so ecstatic that she practically bounces over to me.
“I still can’t believe it,” she says. “We found her. After all this time we found her.”
Earlier when we found the memory card with the photographs on it was one level of vindication for Remington, but now that we’ve located the actual remains of the victim, it’s another. It’s a full and complete vindication and a major component in helping us solve the case.
“Let me help you,” she says, taking one of the bags from me.
Before leaving Dalkeith, I had placed a to-go order from Tiki Grill and had picked it up on the way home. In a few minutes, Merrill and Reggie will be joining us for a late dinner and to discuss the case.
By the time we’ve put the food on plates and poured the drinks, Merrill and Reggie have arrived. Because each of their significant others is working—Merrick on a new podcast and Zaire at Sacred Heart Hospital—and because we all missed dinner while still in the swamp, neither of them hesitated when I asked them to join us for food and conversation.
We’re all far more tired than we realized and spend the first several minutes eating and drinking in relative silence.
Eventually, our strength renewed, our bodies refreshed, we begin to talk and laugh and relive our experiences of today.
Reggie raises her glass to Heather. “To the woman of the hour,” she says. “Doing our jobs for us out there today. Nice work, and with this drink I thee deputize.”
“Hear, hear,” I say, and we all raise a glass to her.
“I haven’t felt anything like this in a—” Heather begins. “Haven’t felt much of anything in a long time. And I’ve never felt anything quite like this. What a rush. Do you think it’s the missing DEA agent?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Reggie says. “Her dental records were waiting at the FDLE lab when the remains arrived.”
Even with good food and good company, my house feels sad and empty without Anna here.
“I’d like to propose another toast,” Heather says, raising her glass. “To the love of my life, one hell of a great photographer, and a very, very brave and courageous man, Remington.”
“To Remington,” we all say.
“I can see why you all do this,” Heather says. “Feels so damn good. Finding the evidence. Vindicating Remington. Finding the crime scene, the victim’s remains. What if, after all this time, Cassie’s parents get to actually find out what happened to their daughter and give her a proper burial? I may need to change professions.”
“Not many days like this,” Reggie says. “It’s mostly waiting and paperwork and being lied to and jumping down rabbit holes and one frustration after another.”
“Which,” I say, “is part of what makes a day like today all the more rewarding.”
“Yes it does,” Reggie says. “It certainly does.”
45
Then
* * *
Climbing down the ladder into the cold, dark night, he wonders if he should stay in the tree stand.
You’re just thinking that because you’re hurt and it’s cold.
Maybe, but this could be the safest place.
If they find you here, you’re trapped.
Down here I could walk right into them.
Just be careful.
Oh, okay.
You’re being sarcastic with a voice inside your head?
Why not? It’s been a long night. You’re all I’ve got to talk to.
You could radio Gauge.
He smiles at that.
Wonder why they’ve been so quiet? Are they out of range? Are we that far apart? What would that be? Two miles?
Probably switched to the other channel when they were all together.
He drops down from the bottom rung onto the ground, the shock shoving rods of pain up through his feet and legs and into his upper body.
How long ’til dawn?
The night is different now, the quality of light altered by the orbiting moon’s movement across the night sky. The air and atmosphere have changed. It feels more like early morning than late night.
Is that just because that’s what I want? How long did I sleep?
He switches between the two channels, listening for transmissions, something he should’ve been doing all along. Why hadn’t he? He had been in shock from killing Jackson, focused on the conversations of the others, and running for his life. Probably hadn’t been doing his best thinking. Still might not be.
Chances are slim anybody but Gauge and his guys are in range, but he has to try.
No idea where the others are, he moves slowly, carefully, quietly.
Should’ve stayed in the tree stand.
Where are you going to hide the memory card? He thinks about it. He has no idea.
How can he ensure it’ll be protected and that he can find it again—or if something happens to him that someone will eventually find it? Preferably soon.
Boot banging into something. He stops and looks down.
It’s a tall cypress knee.
He’s standing in front of a small field of them. Hundreds. Most about two feet tall. He’s never seen so many in one place before. They take up an area of about twenty square yards between a half-dozen cypress trees.
He walks in such a way as to minimize pain, holding himself just so, moving gingerly, but moving.
Where to hide the memory card.
He glances around. Everything looks the same.
Passing through a stand of bamboo, he emerges to see a small bog, water standing in it. Going around it, he climbs up the low incline on the other side and sees the remnants of an old moonshine still.
Bricks.
Broken blocks.
Rusted section of barrel.
Coil of copper, partially buried, twisting around dirt, grass, and leaves.
The things that have been done in these woods, he thinks. Wonder how many other bodies are buried out here? How many bones of indigenous people is this ground grave to? How many explorers? Missionaries? Settlers? Ridge runners? Turpentiners? Hunters? Victims?
One more if you don’t keep moving. Time to turn toward the river.
He’s walked north long enough. Now he needs to circle east, hopefully coming out at the banks of the Chipola much lower than Gauge and his men expect.
Exhausted.
Sore.
Sleepy.
Any benefit derived from the bottled water and junk food and sleep in the tree stand is gone now.
Got to be getting close to the river.
Stiffening with every step, his body begs for stillness, for horizontality. In the words of the old-timers around here, he is stove up.
Just a little further.
You’ve been saying that for a long time now. It’s true this time. It’s got to be.
—Killer? You still with us?
I’m actually glad to hear from him, he thinks. How sick is that? It’s like . . . what’s it called? Stockholm. I’ve got some sort of loneliness-induced radio Stockholm syndrome.
—Won’t be long ’fore these old batteries die, so I thought I’d say goodbye. Hell, yours may already be dead—well, Jackson’s. It’s pretty old. I may be talking to myself.
Remington doesn’t say anything.
—If you’re out there, I wanted to say congratulations.
Remington waits, but Gauge doesn’t say anything else.
—For what? Remington asks.
—Well, Jesus Christ on a cross, he’s still with us. How are you?
—For what? Remington asks again.
—What kind of shape’re you in? You bleedin’?
—Congratulations for what?
—For making it through the night. Sun’ll be up soon. You should be proud of yourself. Similar circumst
ances, others haven’t lasted half as long.
—Do this a lot?
—Hardly ever. Only when we have to. But enough to know what we’re doing. You now hold the record. And you won me some money.
—You bet on me?
—Up to a point. Now, I’m bettin’ on me. By the way, I’ve got another battery for that walkie if you want it. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring it to you.
—Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you where I am.
—Ah, come on now. You seem to know your way around these woods real good. He’s quiet a moment before adding, They are big. And they all look pretty much the same. I’d hate to be out here without the right equipment. Know what I mean, Remington?
Gauge’s use of his name shocks him, disturbing him more than anything else the man has said.
—I’s real sorry to hear about your pops. He was a good man. I bought a good bit of stuff from him.
—How’d you . . .
—Your name? We finally broke into your truck. We were waiting, leaving it intact to get you to come back to it, but I reckon Arlington started shootin’ a little too soon.
—Way too soon as far as I’m concerned.
Gauge laughs.
—Hey, killer, why don’t you just come in? It’s time for this to be over.
—Tempting, but—
—We know who you are, where you live and work. We won’t stop. You did good. You did. But it’s over now.
—You’re right. Tell me where to—
—What is it?
Remington can’t speak, can’t comprehend what his eyes are reporting to his brain.
How can this be? There’s no way.
Heart caving in as the center of him implodes.
—Remmy? You there? What happened?
He stands there speechless, radio hand dropped to his side, as he stares unbelievingly at the tree stand he had climbed out of just a few hours before. No closer to the river, to help, to a chance, he’s made a full circle.
The Remington James Box Set Page 32